Life on the Path
by Skulle
Summary: Set hundreds of years before the events of The Witcher games/novels, this story follows the journey of the witcher Dremor and his alchemist partner Ves. Entirely OC driven.
1. A witcher's work

_Duenmich_ danced amidst the dark. Its elven runic carvings sparkled wildly as the witcher swung it against his numerous foes. The cave was not very deep, but dark nonetheless. Not that it mattered to the witcher, whose senses still worked perfectly down there without the need of any potion usage.

It's arguable that facing so many opponents at the same time without the aid of any potion or decoction would be risky, but not even bothering to use Signs was probably taking it too far. Although Dremor didn't really think so. Those silly monsters were not even opponents, _per se_ , but more of a cannon fodder. Their movements, albeit somewhat nimble, were boringly predictable and not one bit coordinated. Sometimes even striking themselves to death in a friendly fire pandemonium, they waved claws and talons desperately around the place in search for the witcher's flesh, in vain. _Duenmich_ , on the other hand, graciously descended upon their bodies with pinpoint accuracy, severing skin, meat and bone in one go without much resistance.

It was all about controlling the crowd around you, maneuvering in order to never be overwhelmed, yet always on the offensive, thinning out their numbers one at a time. Back step, upward slice to the right, spin, use the circular motion to strike from above, parry with the guard, sidestep to the left, cut upwards again. The silver sword moved rapidly in the witcher's hands, covering as many spots in his defense as possible while cleaving limbs with no apparent trouble.

As the runes carved in the blade started to lose its golden glow, he knew the fight was over. Silent, he waited for a couple of seconds, in expectation for another creature to jump out of some slimy rock crevice, but there was nothing. Besides his own presence, just the horrible stench of blood and rot remained. Dead silence. Once the adrenaline lowered, he concentrated his senses in search for a possible wound his body could have sustained during the fight, but there was none.

Without any hurries, Dremor picked up his pocket knife and began to work. With caution, he meticulously sliced open the creatures' heads just above the ears, revealing their blood-oozing brains. The contract was simple, but so was the pay, and he just could not afford missing coin because he was impatient with the cleaning up duty. As the weird customs of Cidaris demanded, the reward would be calculated based on the weight of the cerebral masses collected from the monsters. As he was just about to work on the last creature, he recognized that one in specific. It was the first to jump at him when he entered the cave, nearly managing to land a hit in the process.

"Almost bit my ear off, the devil," hissed Dremor to himself in his deep, slow voice. _Oh, damn_ , thought him a moment afterwards, _I'm doing it again, this talking to myself thing_. It was hard to stop, after you got so used to it. After you got so used to being alone.

* * *

Even if the services he provided had an incredible demand, his presence was almost never appreciated. Witchers' presences rarely were. They were mutants, freaks to the eyes of the common people. Monstrosities who took coin to kill other monstrosities. To top it off, it was just recently that the Law of Surprise started being used to maintain the witcher cast, and the primitive witcher customs of kidnapping children were still fresh in the populace's memories.

Dremor was a product of the second generation of witchers. After the huge success of the first Alzur experiments, the monster slayers' services became very popular among the human masses. In all honesty, work was never on the short hand for them. There were monsters, all right; more than ever, and witchers were made exclusively to purge them all. Enhanced reflexes and an overall improvement on general physical abilities were just the beginning of the arsenal witchers had at their disposal, but it all carried a heavy price.

The mutations stripped a person of many human aspects, effectively peeling away the very humanity the further the mutation went. When completed, the mutations sterilized every new monster slayer. Since reproduction was impossible, the main problem was getting a reliable supply of boys to carry on the burden, replacing the witchers that died on duty. Needless to say, no parents on their sane minds would ever hand over their children to those monstrous experiments. So, for many years before the usage of the Law of Surprise, the solution seemed drastic yet very simple: the boys were either forcefully taken away from their families or bought from underground war slave traders. After all, the ends justified the means, since such moral dilemmas seemed excessive and petty when considering the bigger picture. The world was steadily being swallowed by beasts, and humans needed protection. The big irony resided in the fact that, at times, people feared their protectors the most.

* * *

Nowadays, however, Dremor was no longer alone. _I'm not a loner anymore, and that's why I need to stop doing this_ , he thought, a smile slowly crawling over his face. _Well, that, and because Ves hates it. She says I look like a freak when I do that_.

"I don't believe I need to talk to myself to look like a freak, my dear," mumbled the witcher, as if to spite her. A useless effort, he knew, since she was not inside the cave with him. Even so, he would have burst into an uncontrollable laughter, had the mutagens not ripped off most of his sense of humor and emotions. Instead, just an ironic giggle escaped his lips. And that was already something. "A freak is a freak, no matter what the freak does". After a short pause, the witcher resumed his work.

As Dremor sliced open the last monster skull, he noticed that this one had a slightly darker skin tone, since its blue scaly hide was almost reaching grey level. Those creatures, a branch family of necrophages adapted to underwater life, started getting out of control in the last years, since even witchers were not trained in underwater combat. What could be done, however, was hunting them down at their nests, often found in swamps and underwater caves, such as the one Dremor was at the moment. Those monsters' swimming speed was unmatched by any common living being, and they almost always attacked in large groups, dragging people down into the water, where they could slowly and peacefully enjoy their meal. It was to no one's surprise that the common folk nicknamed those creatures as drowners.

Finishing with the brains, and eager to get away from that putrid stench so characteristic of corpse eaters, the witcher was almost leaving the cave through the water tunnels when he remembered Ves' request. _That's right_ , he thought, _she wants their fingernails. Didn't even bother to tell me why, as always._ Dremor went back to the nest and began pillaging the drowners once more, this time not so carefully. Those things didn't have proper fingernails, but long and tough claws that extended from the end of their membranous fingers. After getting those as well, the witcher put them in a different satchel from the brains and went on his way.

The nest had been located deep inside a small labyrinth of half flooded tunnels naturally carved on stone and moss. The water was shoulder-deep, and the witcher had to raise the loot above his head while threading back the way he came, in order to avoid getting the already disgusting drowner parts drenched in muddy water. At the end of the tunnels, sunlight began to return, and the witcher had to adjust his pupils again. Until that very moment, they were thin vertical slits, adapting his sight to the darkness.

Outside, Dremor followed his own past trails up a rocky slope. At the top, leaning against a blackened boulder, Ves was waiting. She didn't notice him at first, as his light footing hushed his walk up the cliff, and she looked bored. As soon as she saw him, her face lit up in a smile.

"I was getting worried, you know?" She said in a censoring tone, pouting. "You said it wouldn't even take ten minutes to get it over with."

"Didn't really seem worried to me. You're just grumpy because you had to wait a little longer," answered the witcher. "Besides, I said it would take ten minutes to _kill_ those things, but I still had to do the cleaning up. Here, the fingernails you asked. Some of them are broken here and there."

"It doesn't matter. Thanks, Dremor." She opened the satchel and began sorting the nails on the ground, arranging them by size.

"Would you mind telling me what you wanted this for?"

"Oh, my, you're right; I haven't told you. You see, I've been thinking about this new design for back scratchers, and these little things would make it sell like crazy." Ves looked at him, full of expectation. Then she remembered. "Oh, right, no sense of humor." With a sigh, she finished. "I used quite a bit of my time up here to think of this joke, but I guess it was meaningless."

"No, it was effective, believe me. I'm dying on the inside." The seriousness in his face was what killed her. Howling with laughter, she held her belly in both hands as her knees started to shake and bend. "Seriously, now. What are those nails for? Gonna use it in one of your crazy potions?"

"Ahh, Dre, you're gonna kill me one of these days," still laughing, she wiped a few tears from her eyes. "And I really thought that, after all the time we've been together, you would've guessed that much earlier."

* * *

It has been three years since his last visit to Kaer Morhen, and Ves was the main reason for that. Ever since the first time they met in Vizima, over two years ago, they felt a strong connection to each other. Ves was a young talented herbalist who ran away from home because her parents wanted her to marry a farmer and bear a dozen kids, or maybe even more. She was a nosy, curious girl, astounded and delighted at discovering the world on her own, and Dremor was a field day for her. For starters, he was a witcher, add that to the contrast of his serious and rational personality to her own silly and easygoing self, and finish it with his exquisitely unusual physical build, his olive skin and slender muscular body. There, full serving.

For him, she was an incandescent light amidst the abyss of darkness of his solitude. She didn't speak or stick to him because she wanted to be saved or for some bullcrap contract. She did it simply because she enjoyed being by his side. While he was glad for even having some willing company, soon enough the witcher realized how much he relished being by her side.

They travelled from town to town, searching for job, and even on that aspect they were strangely compatible. To the witcher, travelling along with a human companion apparently made him more approachable for the common folk, facilitating the search for contracts. They no longer took him for a fiendish freak, because, after all, such a petite young woman followed him around just as she would with any other person. To Ves, having a witcher partner gave her alchemy occupation an aura of credibility, since she was always together with a mutant who dealt routinely with extremely complex and dangerous potions.

Dremor was really happy he met her, and he was sure she felt the same. His days now seemed to have purpose, even though they were pretty much doing exactly the same thing he had always done since he started on the Path. The trip to Kaer Morhen during the winter, formerly so much anticipated by the witcher, now seemed dull and meaningless. He usually went back to the citadel to ease up his mood among his witcher comrades after a hard year of scorn and contempt in the human cities. Nowadays, Ves easily managed to cheer him up just fine. And staying true to her personality, in bed she was as wild and unpredictable as a forest fire.

* * *

"Yes, I'm using it for alchemy" Completely recovered from the laughing fit, she talked while closely analyzing each one of the claws. "Drowners have a unique bacteria growing under their nails, probably because of the regular contact with decomposing matter and muddy water." She held one of the larger talons as if it was a war trophy. "This can be used to create a paste of great medicinal value. It's gonna sell lots." Apparently satisfied with the samples, she discarded the badly damaged ones and put the rest inside the satchel once more.

Done packing up, they headed back to the city. It was a five kilometers walk back to Cidaris, capital of a small kingdom with the same name, and hometown to the biggest and most eccentric seaside bazaar in the known world. They arrived at mid afternoon, and the trade was still as intense and lively as ever. Rumors said that anything you could imagine might be found there, and if you could not find it, then it was already sold out. While Dremor had his own skeptic take on magnanimous rumors like those, he thought this one really wasn't that far from the truth.

Starting at the edge of the seashore, the bazaar disseminated itself to the inside of the city like a living organism. Humans, non-humans and animals alike fiercely fought each other for space amidst countless stalls and tents selling their products, in a true swarm fashion. It was surprisingly well structured, with each small establishment to its own, spread among large streets and squares, yet still chaotic and disorganized. In one tent you could buy your everyday morning vegetables and, at a neighboring stall, replenish your stock of wyvern scales for twenty Thalers a piece.

Either through gestures, glances of their merchandise or by the plain ol' 'scream till your lungs drop off' method, each and every vendor had a way to get your attention and keep it until your purse was empty; and when it was, they would also accept the purse itself as payment, or even your clothes. It worked wonders, especially on Ves. Dremor had to hold her by the arm and steer her through the crowd, ignoring her complaints on how much she wanted that oversized battle axe adorned with pearls or her wonderings on if they would be able to travel around while carrying that oak carved armchair she was going to buy. _This is more dangerous than the drowners_ , thought the witcher with a shudder.

Dremor did not doubt he was bought in this exact same place. Even though human traffic was officially banned in Cidaris, so many things also were, and he saw them being sold as if nothing was wrong. Somewhere, in one of the darker spots of the bazaar, in a narrow little street or a dirty, secluded alley, slaves were surely being traded around. During all of his years on the Path, the few times he encountered someone with a complexion like his, they were all Zerrikanian. The olive skin, fine face features and black, straight hair seemed to be a common feature of the people from there. Even if he didn't have any memories of his childhood before Kaer Morhen, at least he knew what was his original birthplace, or, at least, his parentage.

When they arrived at the building in the center of the marketplace, Dremor started to search for the contractor. That was the spot for the bazaar's security forces, consisting entirely of Cidarian city guards. The captain of the guard issued the contract for the extermination of the drowner nest east of the city, since many important merchants who sponsored most of the bazaar activities complained about monster attacks on the region. Dremor knew it all, even though the captain didn't say a thing.

Those merchants most likely bribed the security forces for turning a blind eye on the illegal merchandise they were dealing. Since the creatures attacked the trade routes, the merchants' income started to go down, and when it began to spoil the bribe amount, then the city guard decided to act by hiring a witcher. Dremor still didn't know for sure why the merchants had not talked directly to him, since it would be faster and even cheaper. Ves was of the opinion that, to them, being seen negotiating with a witcher about his services would have had a negative effect on their commerce relations, so it was better for them to outsource the negotiations. A freak like him was never good for business, even if it was that dirty of a business.

After asking around the place they were told where the captain's office was. It was just like one of the buildings many identical rooms, with a simple set of table and chairs at the center. Hanged on the walls, however, the room displayed a huge collection of ornamented weapons of all kinds, shapes and sizes. _Well, well, someone has quite an expensive hobby_ , thought the witcher. _Bribery apparently is a very prosperous business around here_. The man was mumbling to himself behind a large pile of papers stacked over the table.

"Are you busy? What's this much paperwork?" asked Dremor.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, can't you see that already?" The captain didn't recognize his voice, and neither did he bother to look up to them while talking. "All those confiscated illegal goods are giving me one hell of a headache".

 _Confiscated goods, huh? Guess the merchants completely stopped paying the bribes this time around._ Quick as a lightning, another thought crossed his mind. _Also guess they're not really willing to empty their pockets for a witcher, now that the extra income had dried up._

Glancing around, Dremor saw that they were alone with the commander in the room, and he was still completely absorbed by the papers in front of him. Nimble, the witcher grabbed a small ritual dagger displayed on the side wall and stuffed it in his back pocket. If the payment was right, all he had to do was putting the blade back. Better safe than sorry. Ves saw what he just did, and looked at him in a blend of confusion and terror, but he signaled for her to be quiet. Clearing his throat, Dremor spoke again.

"I'm here for the drowner nest contract."

"What?" The captain's bald head appeared behind the stacked papers "Ohh, the witcher! So, how was it? Are those filthy things dead?"

"Here they are, exactly how the city law prescribes." The witcher showed him the bag. "Twelve drowner brains. All of the ones on the cave are dead; you don't have to worry about them attacking trade caravans in this region anymore."

"Good, good!" The words and the captain's face showed satisfaction, but his voice tone said otherwise. "Hey, Jonas, bring me the witchers' weighing device!" Shortly after, a scared young boy appeared in front of the room with a strange bulky instrument. "No, Jonas, I said the _witchers'_ weighing device." Startled, the kid ran away and returned moments later, holding another clumsy trinket in his arms. To Dremor, the equipment seemed identical to the other one.

"T-This one, Sir Palis?" the boy asked.

"That's right, boy. Give it here." Little Jonas ran away as fast as he could when he handed it over to the captain. Pushing the papers aside, Palis cleaned some space over the table and set the weighing device. "Well, let's see how much your work is worth." He opened the sack to check its content and quickly turned away, disgusted. "Okay, drowner brains these are, no doubt about that." He then started to move and set several parts of the equipment, placing the bag on a metal plate that rested on top of the bauble. "It says here… Two kilograms"

"Impossible, there must be something wrong."

"I'm afraid it is not. The weighing device is final and correct. I, myself, just checked its settings in front of you both." Ves, until now quiet and apathetic as a statue, was just about to object when the witcher silenced her with a look.

The young woman, quite versed in the laws and manners of trade and how such equipment worked, noticed that they were being tricked by the way Palis handled the weighing device. Dremor also knew they were being schemed. Even if he wasn't so familiar in the ways of commerce, he also was not a common human. As a witcher, his perceptive senses were highly developed, and even though he didn't exactly remember the weight of the bag by itself, he knew the whole package was almost six kilos.

"What's the matter? Are you dissatisfied with the deal?" The captain asked, a nasty grin plastered on his face. All of a sudden, they were surrounded by city guards. Dremor had heard their movements from six rooms away, but didn't want to startle Ves by telling her. "If you are, you could maybe talk to the boys here. I'm sure they can solve your troubles in no time. They're deadly efficient."

"The deal is fine." The witcher answered, with a menacing look over to the guards. "Two kilograms it is, then."

"Two kilograms it is." Palis broadened his sick smile even more, handing a small purse full of coins. "Eighty Thalers for two kilos of drowner brains. A fair deal. Now go on your way, please. And don't come back." They quietly obeyed, feeling the mocking gaze of the guards as they returned to the bazaar.

Before Ves could throw an angry tantrum in the middle of the marketplace, the witcher held her hand and kept walking, which seemed to calm her down for the moment. When they were far enough from most of the crowd, he stopped.

"I know what you want to say. I know that we've been tricked, that those guys seem to think that they could do whatever they want because they had superior numbers, but…"

"But we must do something!" She snapped. "We should… I don't know, call the authorities or something!"

"Ves, the ones who had us just now _were_ the authorities." With that sudden realization, her rage intensified even more, turning her pretty round face into a perfect, ripe tomato. "Don't worry, though. I got us covered." With a sigh, he removed the small ritual dagger from one of his back pockets. It was adorned with three shining rubies.

"I know. I saw you picking it up from the wall. But that doesn't change the fact that they fooled us and scoffed us while doing it! Why do they think they can do such things? Just because you're a witcher? Don't they feel guilty?"

"No, they don't, just as I don't feel guilty by taking this piece of metal from his collection. That's just how things work. Although I must say they're actually risking themselves too much by pulling stunts like those."

"Why?"

"Because I could count in one hand the number of witchers that I know who would have searched for a peaceful solution like I did. The rest would have simply killed them all." Only then he allowed himself to feel angry about the whole situation, and the words started to come out of his mouth in dry husky growls. "Hell, if I got this contract before I had met you, they would be dead, for sure." Now that he stopped to think about it, there were many ways to make a true bloody mess in that room, slaughtering every single one of those bastards in a swift spectacle of gore. It would be easy, actually. "We are witchers, Ves. We don't work for free. Neither we like to be fooled around by frail humans who think they can scare us like that." His eye irises shone in a furious golden bolt, as if sparks were coming out of them.

Shuddering, she turned away from his gaze. Dremor knew it was only at times like these that she completely understood about who she was living with. He empathized with her concerns, but also thought that it was important for her to keep it in mind. _This is who I am, dear. And this is how other people see you: as someone who walks beside a murderous freak._ With caution, he put his hand on her shoulder, turning Ves over again. To his surprise, she was not scared. Instead, in her eyes shone another type of light, another type of emotion; and the witcher knew it well. It was resolution. Solemnly, she slowly nodded her head. She accepted him, once again. It was as if she had answered to the mental lecture he just gave her. " _I remember now. I know exactly what you are, witcher. I know exactly what it means to be your partner, and I don't give a damn about what others think of me because of it_ ". He could clearly hear it, even though her lips did not move an inch.

After this silent conversation, Dremor couldn't tell how long they stood there, staring at each other. For a brief moment, he considered kissing her right on the spot, then he remembered where they were: right in the middle of the Cidarian seaside bazaar, holding in plain sight a dagger stolen directly from the city guard captain's office. Alarmed by the idea of that bald fucker coming after them to retrieve the item, he decided to break the silence.

"We still have to get rid of this, you know?"

"By the gods, you're right! Come, follow me, I have this contact on the east side of the market that can fetch us a good price for the dagger." This time she was the one guiding him through the crowd, gripping firmly to his arm. As they passed by countless stalls and tents, a refined longsword made of blackened steel caught his eye for a moment, but then it was gone, since Ves kept walking while ignoring everything else around her, dragging the witcher in tow. _I think I just experienced what she must feel every time we go through this place,_ thought Dremor, with a dry laugh _. I really should be more considerate of her from now on, because, damn, that was a fine sword._

Together, the witcher and the alchemist crossed the bazaar as the sun started to set in the horizon.


	2. Consequences

The werewolves howled in agony. Turning together, hunting together, gutting together; good times, it has always been. That night, however, it was not. The prey was fast, had fangs of its own, and bit back ferociously. Definitely not good times.

That was probably Dremor's first big contract. The Lyndra Sisters had been ravaging the northern realms' countryside for years, spreading terror and death wherever they set their hunting grounds. Identical twins, Rhena and Olga Lyndra had never been known by the outside world before the curse of lycanthropy descended upon them, and it was extremely hard to track them down when they did not want to be found.

After three weeks and a bit of luck, however, the witcher managed to spot their camp in the woods near Maribor, but the twins were not there, most likely because they noted his presence beforehand. Dremor searched for them during the entire afternoon, but then decided he had to act that same night, or he would lose their tracks again. Once turned, he knew the sisters could not hide their presences anymore. Coming up with a makeshift plan and whatever potions he could brew until nightfall, he started acting as soon as the terrifying howls filled up the moonlit sky.

The general idea was simple, but the execution had to be perfect for it to work. The witcher knew he had no chance to fulfill the contract if he had to fight both werewolves at the same time. He could hold his own, sure, but would never be able to kill any of them, even with the aid of potions. In addition, his stamina would certainly deplete much sooner than his foes', and that would be the end for him. So he had to be smart, and use every little advantage the situation provided to the fullest.

Turned, they could not distinguish dog from wolf, house from tree, and much less human from witcher. While beasts, they lost every part of their sentient conscience, and that was the only reason they did not immediately run away. Through expert terrain maneuvering and calculated moves, the monster slayer managed to lead them towards a cave, driving the werewolves further and further inside.

Though their attacks were not as coordinated as he expected, their relentlessness almost caught him off guard. The werewolves' naturally aggressive nature was taken into consideration, and it even was, to some extent, necessary for the plan to work. He wasn't expecting, however, _so much_ of it. Rabid is a word that described it well. The mad bloodlust in their eyes showed no other intention than to rip off his limbs and turn his body inside out in the goriest way possible. Always pushing forward, they clawed, bit and roared their way to the witcher at an unrelenting pace.

"That's why two witchers already died while trying to get those bitches", said Dremor to himself while parrying and sidestepping away from their wild claws. He could clearly see deep scars on their torso and faces. His fallen comrades certainly did some work, but it did not matter, since those creatures' last concern was about their own physical state. The previous witchers probably thought it was over once they landed one or two clear blows on critical parts of their bodies, but such strikes only left them open against that never ending aggression. Dead open.

Once inside the cave, each step deeper into the underground, the twins kept chasing Dremor around, and he could see the plan was already bearing fruits. Light steadily faded away, and the sisters' reckless behavior started to work against them as they stumbled and tripped towards their prey. The rage made them simply ignore the fact that, at a certain point, the darkness was so dense that the only things they could see were _Duenmich's_ runes and the witcher's glistening, golden eyes.

Dremor saw everything just fine. While the chemicals of the Cat potion were still pumping in his bloodstream, he could see even in pitch blackness. After noticing that their reaction had become entirely dependent on his own movements with the sword and the glimpse of his eyes, he decided it was time.

In a swift, fluid motion, he took a big step back, sheathed the silver blade and closed his eyes, leaving the beasts in the deepest possible darkness. The werewolves stopped their advance immediately, clearly confused and caught off guard. The prey they had lusted so much was gone, and so was everything around them. Quick and silent, using their perplexed snarls as a reference of their location, he positioned himself next to the closest one and performed the most risky act of the entire plan.

All at once, he opened his eyes, unsheathed _Duenmich_ and slashed at the werewolf's head, while using his left hand to form the quickest Aard Sign he had ever done. It worked like a charm. Unprepared for the sudden assault, the closest sister could not react in time while the silver blade sliced all the way from the back of her nape to the front of her throat, cleanly decapitating the beast with just one blow. The other one, having fully received the air blast from the Sign, would probably be able to recover only in a few seco-

Pain. Sharp, throbbing. Blood gushing out from his face, and a sick numbness that felt like his entire jaw had been ripped out.

* * *

Dremor woke up, startled.

 _Another nightmare_ , he thought, with a sigh, _and one that really happened, for a change_. Instinctively, he touched his chin, stating that it was still there. At the time, though, it really seemed as if his whole lower skull had been shredded off.

Now, looking back, he could clearly see what went wrong that night. Evidently, the witcher had once more underestimated their aggressiveness. The instant that light returned to their twisted, bloodthirsty world, they began to act again. Sure, the first of the twins could not move in time to evade the silver blade, but the second one was already on top of him when the Sign had been formed. Instead of knocking her down, the Aard blast only took her off balance, partly deflecting a blow that would have surely killed him otherwise. Even while wounded, however, the rest of the fight was relatively easy, since he only had to face one of them, and it was still pitch black down there.

Noting that dawn was nearing, Dremor got up and left the bed. As usual, Ves was still asleep, nude, happily babbling away amidst the crazy dreams she claimed to have. _Only if she knew what I have to go through every night…_ The mutagens had surely worked their way on his body, since his speed, reflexes, muscular strength and biological features were the same as every other witcher, but it all came with strange side effects he never heard anyone else commentate about.

Each time he slept, a different dream. Vivid, savourable, almost real, and it was always about killing. Was it a spot on reconstruction of a fight that actually happened, like the one he just had, or a completely fictional scene, he always carried the duty of the harbinger of death. In those dreams, while slaying monsters, he was cold and rational, fulfilling his deeds without much care.

The worst nightmares, however, were when he slaughtered people. Inside those ones, a mad rage consumed him, as if he had become a beast himself. He had absolutely no control of his body as he sliced and diced at the corpses of helpless humans, elves, dwarves, and sometimes even halflings. In the end, everyone met a messy, gruesome death by his hands.

Even though she probably had her suspicions, Dremor never told Ves about the dreams. The alchemist already had her hands full at dealing with the way people treated her because of him, and she didn't need yet another reason to worry. At that moment, however, she lied peacefully on the bed. It took a true fanfare to wake her up before eight, and he moved around the room as silent as a shadow. After gathering his clothes and a towel, he went to the bathroom and lit up the fire beneath the porcelain tub. _Since we've already spent a fortune, I'll enjoy it as much as I can._

* * *

From Dremor's calculations, the guard captain schemed them one hundred and sixty Thalers the day before, and that little play cost him dearly. Ves' contact fetched them a whopping five hundred Thalers for the sacrificial dagger, mostly because of the rubies. They briefly considered returning the surpassing amount in secret, but then changed their minds. Those guards were not worth the trouble. Instead, they rented an entire floor at the most expensive cottage in the city, and spent the night enjoying themselves among luxuries and delights of a life they knew they could never have.

* * *

The garnished tub was one of the treats the place provided, as well as a huge crystal mirror notched to the bathroom's front wall. While steam and foam bubbled up from the heating water, the witcher could take a good look at his own figure, and the dream from just now made him focus on Olga.

The scar started just below his right ear, going down while covering the jaw line until the middle of his chin. Granted, there were others on his face, but lesser, almost completely cleared away by time and his very own slow, but sure aging. Olga, on the other hand, was big and intrusive, copper-colored as if the wound had just healed.

As a form of reminder, all of his major scars were named after the beasts that caused them; and if they had no name, he just had to make it up. Olga, for instance, had a fifty percent chance of being named correctly, as he could never know for sure which twin cut him up: when dying on beast form, their bodies remained like that forever, and the sisters didn't have in their belongings any form of identification whatsoever. All things considered, it wasn't that big of a deal, since Olga just sounded way better than Rhena.

After taking a long, relaxing bath, Dremor returned to the bedroom, grabbed his swords and went into the bathroom once again. He did not want to bother the snoring lady. Kneeling on the floor, he started to care for his blades. _Duenmich_ , made of the purest silver, glistened faintly as the witcher carefully moistened it with specially condimented oils. The leather grip was long and thin, a perfect fit for a sword designed to be held with both hands. Reaching to each end of the cross-guard, the metal was expertly chiseled in the form of a scale. This unique craftsmanship was also present on the pommel, whose embossing consistency always reminded him of a hard, cold nut when he handled the sword. All those details harmonized with the runes carved in the blade, which read "dragon's claw" in ancient elvish. After the oiling was done, he rested _Duenmich_ by the wall and grabbed the other one.

 _Töhra_ , slightly heavier and bulkier than _Duenmich_ , was made by dwarven hands entirely on reinforced Mahakaman steel. In contrast to the silver blade's shining, vivid nature, the steel sword had a darkened, opaque tone. The guard, bent slightly up, also had a circular rim protection that faced away from the witcher when he handled the sword. Other than the standard, hard-boiled leather wrapping, its grip had no special features, which could also be said about the pommel, with its common, smoothly rounded design.

The blade supposedly was an antique piece found long ago embedded within a dragon skull. Forged in ancient times, the warrior who once brandished it had been swallowed whole and managed to strike the beast from the inside. While the blade hacked from within its head, before its last breath of life, the dragon flooded its own body in hellfire, turning the poor warrior to ashes. The sword, however, was not destroyed, since it was indeed made of the authentic Mahakaman steel. Yet, as a result of that episode, the reinforced metal acquired a scorched shade, impossible to remove by any means physical, chemical or magical; or so that old dwarven merchant told him in Aldersberg. Thus, instead of runes, _Töhra_ displayed a few seemingly charred spots that, although not visually appealing, did not hinder the blade's resistance, handling or performance.

Dremor dearly cherished both blades, caring for them whenever he had a bit of spare time. They were his most aged companions, since all his closer witcher friends from his generation had already died on the Path. He liked to imagine them as two parts of a whole: as the runes clearly indicated, _Duenmich_ was the dragon's claw, twinkling its bright sharpness to anyone who dared to get close enough. On the other hand, _Töhra_ represented the dragon's tooth, directly removed from the majestic creature's skull; scorched from the countless years of contact with the beast's roaring flames, and still just as deadly as ever.

Finishing with the steel blade, the witcher turned again to his silver sword. The oil chemicals had already dried, and the metal displayed a hazy shine. Searching around for the silk cloth used for polishing the swords, he got startled when it popped in front of his face. Ves was handing it to him.

Caring for his blades usually demanded all of his attention, absorbing him in a pleasant state of affection and nostalgia. So it was not to his surprise that he couldn't hear a thing when she awoke, got up, and started to watch him tending to his trade. She always enjoyed keeping up with him when he treated his blades, brewed secret witcher potions with rare ingredients, or even when he meditated. Her curious self deeply admired those who possessed skills and abilities she did not own or know about; and that probably meant she admired a lot of people. Leaning against the open bathroom door, she stood there, in pure awe, naked.

Her short height and goofy personality sometimes mislead him about her age, but during times like this there was no mistake about it. Ves was no kid. Instead, the person in front of him was a perfectly matured young adult. While keeping everything in proportion to her size, her body was a marvel to look at. And he looked, indeed. She had brown hair and eyes, a small curved nose and lips that filled almost half of her face when she smiled. Her small, yet plump bare breasts pointed upfront, watchful. The thighs shaped up perfectly her waistline in a way that-

"Go on, keep doing the... thing with the swords. We can have some fun later." She was still attentively staring at the blades, their shine reflecting lively in her eyes.

Wrapping it firmly to the sharp edges, the witcher slid the silk tissue up, down and around, thoroughly polishing the metal. Slowly, its hazy, opaque brightness turned into the vivid radiance so typical of _Duenmich_. Before he was done, however, the alchemist interrupted his work.

"Someone's making a real fuss downstairs. It's so loud I can hear it from here."

Taken away from the dozed off state of his care for the blades, Dremor could focus his senses again, and stated that Ves was more than right. On the ground floor, several people screamed at the same time, making it hard for him to understand what was the reason for all that. He could, however, distinguish the voice of the cottage owner, some of the attendants, and a third one that sounded somewhat familiar. After a few loud thuds and more screaming, the witcher noticed who the noisy uninvited guests were.

"Put your clothes on, quick. We'll have company very soon." He warned the alchemist, who promptly started to dress up. He could hear them perfectly now. Metal greaves ascended the stairs, clanking with each step along with the armored breastplates and weaponry. That third known voice sounded clearly, ordering them up: it was Palis. Dremor was about halfway done with his cotton shirt when they entered the main room of the floor he and Ves had rented.

"To the bedroom, boys." The captain of the guard commanded, with triumph. "The two lovebirds must be waiting there." A few moments later, the bald officer and his squad burst from the door.

"Welcome, dear guests. What can I do for you?" Despite Dremor's warm words, his tone and stance clearly revealed his true intentions. The witcher held _Töhra_ close to his chest, defensively, ready to act on the slightest sign of aggressiveness. Noticing that, the guards instantly dropped their stupid grins and assumed a serious expression.

"Now, now, witcher, easy. We just want to talk about some… unfinished business."

"Cut the crap, Palis. What do you want?"

"I want what's mine, and you know it. Where's my dagger, thief?"

"You cheated us, we cheated you back." Ves intervened at the corner of the bedroom, still not entirely dressed, and already furious. "A fine deal, indeed." She added with a daring smile.

"I see, witcher, that you already polluted this girl's mind with your twisted logic and barbaric manners." Ves' taunt obviously hit a nerve, since Palis' usually calm voice sounded dry and rasp. The guards also felt it, and began to ready their weapons. _Trouble's very near_ , thought the witcher, worried for the alchemist. _I can smell blood, already_.

Before any rash actions, however, he quickly did the math. Clumped in the bedroom were eight people: himself, Ves, Palis, and another five guards. His potential foes were using metal plating on their chests, leggings and greaves, standard iron helmets, and chained gloves. Four of them, including the captain, used longswords, and each of the other two held a strange polearm similar to a halberd. Dremor had his brown leather pants, a plain, white cotton shirt half buttoned up, and _Töhra_.

He could kill them all, right there.

And then he would become a true criminal. Self-defense or not, it wouldn't matter. The story of the crazy witcher who slew several Cidarian guards in a horrid outbreak of madness would reach every far corner of the northern kingdoms, and beyond. It would even drag Ves down to the same hole, since she would be associated with a wanted murderer. The true happiness of her life, alchemy and commerce, would be forever doomed. She would never again be spoken to in the same way by anyone that knew who she was or whom she lived with. Thinking of her, Dremor made his decision.

Kneeling to the ground, he slowly raised one of his hands; with the other, he laid the steel sword on the wooden floor and pushed it away. The blade slid to the opposite side of the room, poking lightly into the door frame. Standing up again, the witcher spoke in the most conciliatory tone he could manage, given the situation at hand.

"We-… I… I've sold the dagger and spent most of the money already… I can give you what's left, and then negotiate a price. I'll owe you, we can even make a letter of obligation, if you want. A contract. Give me a few weeks, and you'll have your money back, with interest. I just don't want any more trouble."

At first, Palis didn't seem to understand what had just happened, and just stood there, staring at the couple with a confused look on his face. _Didn't think I would give up that easily, eh?_ The other guards weren't any better, either, since apparently all they could muster was looking at their equally perplexed officer, waiting for an order. After taking a few moments to digest that sudden turn of events, however, Palis finally noticed he had the upper hand. With that sick smile of his and a mocking voice tone, he began his speech.

"I'll be honest with you, witcher. I prepared this whole task force because I feared you. I knew that, if I brought a whole armed squad, you would at least consider making a deal, given that you were protecting those little tits behind you. I thought you were a force to be reckoned with, but now I know I gave you too much credit. You're just stupid. You gave us the chance to force the deal _and_ beat you both to a pulp."

"Don't be this low, Palis. It's not going to end well."

"Ohh, freak. For this opportunity, I would sink _much_ lower. I and the boys here always wanted to punch the flesh of a witcher to see if it's harder than usual. And now, we can even do that while ploughing his own little wench on their lovely rented bed. Now, let's-"

"Before anything else, just answer me. Why?"

* * *

Dremor had never, in any moment of his life, doubted the bad side of humankind. People were simply evil, sadistic and selfish by nature, fearing and shunning everything different and (to their eyes) inferior. Yet he knew that, sometimes, pure violence and bigotry were not so pure, so out of purpose. Hell, he couldn't remember the amount of times he was scorned for being a child kidnapper. Even though he wasn't, he knew that many of the old ladies who spat while he passed actually lost their kids to other witchers on silent, unsuspecting nights.

Given that scenario, Dremor liked to play this little mental game where he wagered the odds: was the individual in front of him acting with a purpose, or was that just another display of a rotten personality? It was always fun to stay against humanity itself, because doing so made it seem like there was another gambler on the mix. With Palis, was there anything that could explain all this hatred, or was it just humans being humans? As usual, his bets were on the latter.

* * *

"Why, you ask? Is there any reason not to? You're a freak, nobody cares about you, and we want to let out some steam. In fact, we don't even have to put up this little show anymore." From the leather purse he was carrying, he removed the same ritual dagger Dremor and Ves had stolen and sold the day before. "It was easy to track this down to the last buyer. I have eyes all over the market."

"So, you only came here to rub it on our faces and then beat the shit out of us, just because you can?" Ves asked, dryly.

"Finally, someone who understands me! Took your sweet time, huh, sugar?"

 _Touché, humankind. I win once again._

"I first thought you were here to collect a debt." She continued, poison oozing from every word. "But, in the end, you're just scum. Filth. Trash." With each punctuated sentence, Palis' expression became more and more dreadful. Once again, the alchemist managed to rile him up, but this time it seemed worse. Unsheathing his blade, he issued the order.

"Changed my mind. You can play all you want with this whore, but slit her throat afterwards." His crazed look went from Ves to Dremor. "The witcher dies, now." The soldiers also readied themselves, and advanced.

As quickly as he did before, Dremor calculated the odds of the fight. The variables remained pretty much the same, except for the fact that all the soldiers, but especially Palis, had a clear bloodlust consuming their minds. Oh, and there was that. He didn't have _Töhra_ anymore.

He could still kill them all, right there. Although he hoped he didn't have to go that far.

Once they started to get close, the witcher took two quick steps forward with his inhuman speed. Caught off guard, the first soldier wasn't able to parry or dodge his punch. Dremor could feel the chin shatter under his fist, and the man dropped like dead. _Hopefully not._

With five foes remaining and the surprise factor out of the way, the witcher could only catch a glimpse of Ves running away from the room before being engaged by the others, but just that already lifted a huge burden out of his chest. Now they could dance at his pace. Since the guards were heavily armored everywhere else, the front of their faces was the only vulnerable place he could actually deal significant damage with his bare hands and feet, so that's where he aimed. That much protection, however, also encumbered them, and they moved heavily around the place, trying to catch him.

The bedroom was not that small, but also not big enough to allow them any coordinated act whatsoever. He dodged a swing from his left, ducked away from a close-range halberd thrust, and formed the Aard Sign at his front, knocking two of them to the ground, helmets flying away. Without losing momentum, he rushed forward to the fallen foes and brutally kicked the first one in the face while he tried to get up; the second was almost on his feet, but another Aard blast launched him across the room once more, making his head hit the wooden footboard of the bed with a loud thud. Both stayed down for good, but Dremor didn't go unscathed after all that: he had shallow cuts all over his body, but a particularly ugly one on his left thigh would make his movements slower for the rest of the fight.

He turned back to his foes and resumed his dance, swaying away from their blades and searching for openings, but it got harder than before. Now, there were only three remaining, and with not so many people fighting around the clumped place, the guards moved freely and were able to somewhat synchronize their attacks and evade the witcher's hexes. After dodging Palis' blade, he barely managed to cast a Quen Sign before another blow hit the middle of his chest. The magic shield absorbed all the damage, but was instantly broken, shattering in a burst of energy around the witcher that made his foes back off for a brief moment.

Dremor used that chance to maneuver around the place, and as soon as he found the perfect spot for it, he cast an Yrden Sign on the ground. The purple magic field covered a fair part of the room, and it worked wonders, drastically reducing the speed of his closing attackers. The two soldiers on the back promptly backed away from the area affected by the Sign when they saw the one at the front suddenly get slower.

"Fuck, cap, he's too quick!" screamed the guard in frustration, trying to hit the witcher with the halberd.

"So step out of his witchcraft, stupid fool!" Palis hissed in response, trying to catch a breath inside the heavy, plated armor. Only then the halberdier noticed he was inside the purple field, together with the witcher. Not wanting to lose that opportunity, while the soldier attempted to back away from the affected area, Dremor closed the distance, grabbed the weapon's wooden pole with both hands and pulled it down, trying to disarm his opponent; but the guard didn't let go of it, and was also pulled down, bent over. _Oh, if that's what you want…_ The witcher then jumped and raised his right knee, fully connecting it with the face of the poor bastard. Blood exploded from his broken nose and mouth as the impact launched him across the room. He hit the ground and didn't get up.

"Why don't you catch any of our weapons and fight back, witcher? You sure had plenty of chances to do so." Palis seemed curious, yet he did not dare to step into the Yrden field. "Could it be you're afraid of… some sort of public backlash? Since when the folk's opinion started to matter that much to you?" _The fucker's smart, I have to throw him off._

"Actually, no." Dremor answered, wearing his most disgusting and prepotent smile. Downstairs, he could hear more turmoil and screaming. He had to finish this quickly. "I just wanted some handicap because it looked like fun, to see if you humans would be a match for my skills, but it seems not. You're just inferior beings not worthy of my tim-" As soon as the Yrden field was down, Palis advanced like a bull, charging at the witcher with all his might. Dremor simply took a sidestep at the last moment, leaving his left foot behind. The captain stumbled vigorously and fell face first on the wooden floor.

As Palis struggled to get up again, removing his own bent, bloodied helmet, the witcher dealt with the last remaining guard. He was fast and skilled, but also scared, his eyes never facing Dremor's. _That's right. This freak here just wiped out your entire squad with his bare hands, and now it's your turn._ Cornering him between the wall and the bed, the witcher slipped past the longsword's range, grabbed the soldier's wrists, and bludgeoned his face with the guard of the sword while he was still holding it; until he wasn't anymore. Passed out, he collapsed on top of the mattress.

In order to face the captain once more, Dremor turned just in time to see Ves striking him from behind. She swung a huge alchemy bottle with both hands, outlining an upward arc until the glass shattered with a sick _crack_ into his skull. His whole body stiffened for a brief moment, and then he plummeted forward, hitting the floor in the exact same standing stance he was a while ago. It would be hilarious, if not so potentially tragic. With quick steps, Dremor reached the alchemist and removed the broken bottle remains from her trembling hands.

"D… Did I kill him?" Kneeling to the ground, he checked Palis' pulse. It was still there.

"He's not dead, but when he wakes up, the headache will surely make him wish he was." Sighing in relief, she looked at the other guards. They all seemed fine, but they had no time to check every one of them. "Clothes, instruments, grab everything you need. We're leaving as soon as you're ready."

"Already am." She picked up an overly sized backpack from behind the mahogany door. "Started packing as soon as I left the room. Figured we'd have to hit the road when you were done with them."

"Good. We're going, just give me a minute." For good measure, Dremor wrapped his thigh injury firmly with some tissue, stopping the bleeding and numbing down the throbbing pain for a bit. He then slipped inside his leather padded gear and grabbed his swords. Before leaving, both wore their long hooded mantles. On their way down, they met the cottage owner, who was walking up the stairs with a grim expression and a broken nose. When he looked under their hoods, he seemed equally delighted and uneasy.

"Good gods, you're fine! I wanted to check on you because those officers from before were really angry at you both. I thought th-"

"Why did you come up right now?" Suspicious, the witcher grabbed the old man by the collar, looking at him directly in the eyes. "If you were that worried, you would've came much sooner. Are there more soldiers? Are you working with them?" He felt the man shrink away from his gaze. _Gotcha._

"They forced me. They said I had to lure you down, so they could ambush you downstairs with a suh-surprise attack." Trembling, he started to cry copiously, stuttering with each sob. "Puh-puh-please, help me, master witcher. They'll cuh-cuh-kill my daughters if I don't come back wih-with you."

"Calm down, I believe you."

"Wha-!"

"Not now, Ves. Don't worry, we won't walk into their trap." The witcher opened a nearby window and looked down to the street. _A four meter drop, I think we should be fine._ "Look, mister…?"

"Guh-Gilbert."

"Mister Gilbert, when they ask anything, and they _will_ ask, tell them you met us on the stairs and I instantly knocked you out, got it?" He nodded frantically and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. And the inevitable hit him hard. After taking the witcher's punch, the poor old man collapsed like a ragdoll.

"Wow, Dre, you could've held back a little. His face looks like a red-seasoned, mashed potato."

"No, I had to go all out. The guards wouldn't believe a single word of his otherwise." Not wanting to waste any time, Dremor picked up the alchemist in his arms. "Hold on tight. We're jumping."

"Down the street? Are you sure it's a good ide-AAAAHH!" Landing on his feet, he distributed the weight by bending his knees to allow his lower body to absorb most the impact; efficient and silent. Still hurt like hell, though. "Shit, I was too loud, now they'll be after us".

"That's what I want. It would seem like a hurried makeshift plan, and help Gilbert's version of the story. There they are." From the street corner, city guards spotted them and rushed to their direction, screaming orders. "Run!"

They were chased from the city outskirts where the inn was located all the way to the seaside market. Dremor carried Ves' ridiculously heavy bag, and still managed to bolt ahead, clearing the path of any bystanders. The soldiers, armed and armored to the teeth, lagged further and further behind. When the distance seemed right, the witcher shortened the gap between him and Ves and entered the dark alleys of the market. Sewing his way through the tight corridors and lanes, he ran in circles for a couple of minutes and then made several sharp turns, in order to lose their pursuers. Next to a dead end, facing the city walls, they hid inside an abandoned shack and waited for the guards to move to another area.

"Pretty comfy down here, all things considered." Remarked the alchemist after a few minutes of silence and tension.

"Shh, be quiet, or they'll find us," scolded Dremor in a low voice, peeking at the street.

"Oh, come on, they're already far from here. We should leave already."

"Too risky. We should wait a little longer to make sure the place is safe." Another pause to scan the surroundings, and again she resumed the conversation.

"A little bit off topic, but I really liked the way you held me back at the inn. You could be more romantic at times, you know that?"

"Huh, I guess I could." _Certainly wouldn't hurt to try._

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" Her face lit up in a dreamy smile. "So, when we leave, you could hold me in your arms again, like a maiden from a fairytale!"

"Don't push it. I'm already encumbered enough by this huge bag of yours." As quickly as it came, her smile turned into a sulky pout. They waited some more, then decided it was safe to leave.

"Just for a couple blocks?" She insisted, with a hopeful look.

"Not gonna happen." She was about to complain once more when he swept his arm in front of her, blocking the way.

All of a sudden, the witcher felt a close presence appear out of nowhere. Turning a close corner, a shady figure approached. He… No, _it_. It wore a dirty travelling vest, its face covered in a ragged hood. _Strange. Too close, I should've felt this coming way earlier._ Dremor rested his other hand over both the swords sheathed at his back, not knowing for sure which one to choose. _Looks human, but this aura is so very strange that Duenmich doesn't seem like a bad option, either._ Noticing the witcher's uneasiness, the figure ahead raised its arms, in a sign of truce, and removed the hood. It was a plain, middle-aged man, with scarce black hair that was already graying and a scared expression.

"Sorry if I spooked ya, master witcher, please dun' kill me."

"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Finally making his decision, Dremor reached for _Töhra_ 's leather grip. "And how do you know I'm a witcher?"

"Two swords on the back, sire. I was sent here by my village to search one of youse. We need help."

"And how did you know I was here?"

"But I didn't, sire! Just heard a few guards screamin' about catchin' a witcher, so thought to meself: 'better look around, maybe I'll find him hiding somewhere'. But this side o' town is too scary, and while looking for youse I ended up hiding meself."

"Fine." He let go of both Ves and the steel sword. He was, indeed, talking to the alchemist for a while, and could have missed this man's approach, considering he was also trying to hide his presence. _Have to be more careful. My senses are getting duller with age._ "I would like to help you and your village, but we're trapped in this damned city. They'll keep every entrance locked up until they find us. And they will, sooner or later."

"Ohh, sorry to hear that. But if ye can't help it, then ye can't help it. I'm goin' back to the boat then".

"Boat?!" Ves exclaimed, surprising even herself. "You got a boat?"

"Yes. A big fishin' boat, the only one the village could spare for my trip."

"We could get away in it, Dre! There's no way the guards can check every ship that gets in and out of the city. It's a _seaside_ bazaar, for Melitele's sake!"

"Can you take us to the village?" The witcher asked.

" 'f course, master witcher! Tha's why I came here in the firs' place!"

"Let's get moving then, we still have to reach the boat while avoiding the guards. Tread light, and be quick."

Dremor lead the way, followed closely by his other companions; three hooded figures that slithered away amidst the dark alleys of the Cidarian market.


	3. A new job - part 1

The world was red.

Dark red, bright red, deep red. Blood red.

People begged for mercy, crying, yelling and running around in circles, trying to escape their inevitable death by his hands. The blade descended upon them nonstop, its swings and swirls whistling a requiem that resonated deeply inside his mind.

There was fire, too, and pain. But his senses were already dulled, and only rage remained. He could feel his mind going blank as he also bled to death from several wounds in his own body. Grimly, the people around him transformed, becoming less human and more beast by every passing moment. Just like him.

Still hacking and screaming, he took a long time to realize that everything around him had already died, and what he slashed at were, in fact, lifeless chunks of meat sprayed around the place. Now it was all red, not only in his mind. His sight was blurred with blood pouring from his head, and his body was probably in no better shape.

In the distance, beyond the gore and carnage, he could distinguish a figure lying on the floor. It caused him a deep and sick repulse, yet some strange primeval force drew him to it, even though he clearly didn't want to know what it was. Step by step, he forced himself forward, trying his best not to stumble and fall to the ground, for he knew if that were to happen, he would never get up again.

It was a small lifeless body, relatively untouched and clean. Female. Terrified, he started to resemble who that was by each nearing step. His conscience screamed and howled, craving to leave that unforgiving place, but every cell of his body acted otherwise. And then, he was close enough.

The touch was the same. The feel of her skin, her hair. But she was still bent over, facing the opposite direction, so he wasn't sure. He didn't want to know. But he had to know. And, deep inside, he already knew. His hand slowly reached to her face and turned it back, his mental breakdown now causing a sharp physical pain.

Ves stared at him with blank eyes and a sad smile. Dripping from the corner of her lips, blood also flowed from several wounds on her chest and neck, surely caused by him during his surge of rage and madness.

That was enough. Now even his body wanted to leave, to run away from there, to forget all about what happened, but he was unable to. He didn't have the strength to stand up _. I am also dying._ With the little energy he had left, he turned her body over and placed her head on his lap. After looking down at her final complexion, he closed his eyes and allowed the last remnants of life to leave his body in a calm and steady stream.

* * *

Shivering, Dremor woke up on Ves' arms. She seemed really worried.

"I knew you had nightmares, but had no idea they were this terrible." She gently wiped the sweat from his forehead and hugged him tight. "You were trembling and writhing, as if you were in pain."

"Never this terrible." Surely, he killed people before in his dreams, but never Ves. And never so real, so _personal_. "I'm sorry for making you worry so much. I'm fine now."

"It must be really hard." She cuddled closer, looking at him in the eyes. "I'm not gonna force you, but if you wanna talk about it, you know I'm always here."

"I know." He hugged her back and kissed her deeply. "I love you, Ves." Clearly caught off guard, she blushed and turned her face away. "What's wrong? You were the one who said I had to be more romantic at times." He loved everything about her, starting by her name.

* * *

At the time, Ves was a very common name in the northern kingdoms. Tales of the sanctified merchant Gregory, who donated most of his fortune to feed the population of Novigrad during the city's deepest crisis, were spread among the countries for decades. Ves, his all so bright and beloved wife, was often described in the stories as attentive, intellectual, and stunningly beautiful.

As a result of those tales, their names became really popular, even though, Dremor didn't doubt, those were characters that nowadays diverged completely from their true original personalities. Mothers named their daughters after the lovely Ves, and fathers wanted their Gregory sons to be as smart and benevolent as the sanctified merchant. Time passed, and the traditional names started to mutate, adapting to each region and the accent of its people. Gregory was sometimes shortened into Grey, Gory, or simply Greg; on the other hand, with Ves, it was easier to find people named after the extended variations, such as Vince, Venna, or even Visenna.

Dremor had absolutely no problems with this whole story, since the traditional Ves, which gave birth to all those different pronunciations of the female name, derived from the ancient Zerrikanian name Vea. He was aware that most people didn't know that, and those who knew probably didn't even care. Nonetheless, having his own biological origins influence so many names of the folk from the northern realms filled him with some strange kind of joy.

* * *

"Y-yeah, I know I said that, but this was so sudden that… I'm just not used to it, that's all." She peeked behind the witcher. "And besides, we're not alone." Dremor turned his head to check on their companion. Olme, the fisherman who found them on the Cidarian alleys, gripped the helm with both hands. He snored peacefully, his head tilting up and down on the slow rhythm of the waves.

"I don't think he would mind, Ves. He's asleep." The witcher thought briefly about flirting with her again, and then common sense made its way into his mind. _He's supposed to take us to his village. If he's asleep, who's guiding us?_ "Better wake him up, though, before we end up entering the Pontar, or something worse." Dremor got up and wore his cotton shirt, shifting his weight around the ship. Just that slight change of balance on the vessel was already enough to awaken the sleeping man.

"O-Oy… Master witcher, already up?"

"Don't mind me if I ask, Olme, but how are we supposed to go the right way when you sleep like that?"

"Dun' worry, sire. We's already in the cold Nova curr'nt. It takes us straight to the village."

"How long until we're there?" The fisherman straightened his hand above the eyes and peeked forward.

"Not much. Maybe 'n hour or two. The fog is near."

* * *

Their escape from the city was way easier than Dremor initially pictured. The witcher wore his hood to cover Ves' bag and his swords, making him the weirdest hunchback alive. His disfigured self attracted all of the attention, while both his companions treaded behind virtually unnoticed. When the trio entered the dirty fishing boat, announcing their leave to a poor faraway village, the guards didn't even bat an eye. As they finally left the Cidarian shore, Olme explained the situation as best he could.

Located on a small drifted isle, the village, named Lindale, was cursed. After becoming shrouded by a dense mist, its climate took a turn for the worst, and the once warm weather was now cold and dry. Farming was near impossible, since it never rained and the underground water pockets barely managed to provide enough drinking water for everyone. To make matters worse, people started to go missing, and the surrounding woods and shores became infested with ghastly wraiths that haunted the populace on the coldest nights.

Nobody was able to discover a plausible cause for the curse, as most of their energy was devoted to simply staying alive. They tried hunting, but there were already few animals on the island to begin with, and the forest became a dangerous place with all the specters roaming about. Fishing was their only safe, reliable food source, and even that got worse as time went by. The mist turned the water excessively cold, driving away most of the fish, and it seemed to advance further and further ahead, making the island more isolated by each passing day. If the curse was not lifted soon enough Lindale would wither away and die, together with all its residents.

* * *

As soon as they entered the fog, his medallion started to tingle and slightly wriggle around, making a rattling sound that deeply unsettled Ves, since she always associated it with imminent danger. Ever since they started traveling together, Dremor made sure that association would be clear and immediate in her mind. The fog seemed to be connected with magic, and if that was the case, then the tingling wouldn't stop so soon. Thus, at least to stop the damn clinking noise, he put the medallion under his cotton shirt and hoped for the best.

Almost an hour later, the island revealed itself, and Dremor acknowledged that Olme wasn't overstating when he said the shore had been taken by wraiths. Floating all over the beach, their fading existences swarmed around aimlessly. _If the boat passed just a few dozen meters closer, they'd be able to notice our presences. That would've turned out very ugly for us._ Following the current, the vessel traversed through the edge of the shore, outlining its shape.

"So many of them!" Ves exclaimed, gaped. "You'll have to fight this many monsters, Dre?"

"We'll see, but hopefully not." The witcher turned to the fisherman. "Is every part of the island infested like this?"

"Nay, sire. This' one of the worst places, but I dunno much else. Joan will explain e'rry detail ye need when we arrive."

"Who's this Joan you speak so much of?"

"He's the village couns'lor, our mentor. He's wise 'n fair, we can always count on 'im when times 're hard".

"He's your local leader, then."

"Well, I guess ye can say that."

They followed the current for a while before catching sight of the village. It was bigger than Dremor expected, although its size most certainly didn't reflect on the population number. The harbor was small and tight, with barely enough room for their big fishing boat to anchor, but Olme maneuvered steady and precise, repeating the same moves he undoubtedly performed during countless years of his life.

As soon as the witcher stepped into the island's accursed soil, he knew this wouldn't be just another ordinary job. Forget about tingling; now his medallion flickered and twitched beneath his clothes, practically humming away at the rhythm of his heartbeats. _There's some strong, ancient magic taking place here, and it sure won't be easy to even figure it out, let alone defeat it_.

It was cold and arid. The mist scratched his throat every time he had to breathe, as if the air itself sucked all humidity it encountered, and it didn't take long for his eyes to become irritated and itchy. The sun was present, but just barely, as a vague memory, a clear yet distant remembrance of what it once was; its rays not warm anymore after traversing through countless layers of clouds and fog.

The houses were plain, built mostly on eucalyptus wood with simple stone foundations, yet very spacious. The couple followed the fisherman through rough compacted dirt streets, heading straight to Joan's residence. The first people they met didn't seem to recognize Dremor at first, but a closer look and a few interchanged whispers were more than enough to reassure themselves about it. Their reactions, however, didn't change much from when they didn't know who he was. There was nothing else on their eyes, no exasperation, no fear, no curiosity, just grief. And death.

No one spoke to them as they passed through the dense maze of short streets and straight alleys that composed the village's architecture. Although what bothered Dremor the most was the fact that nobody followed them. Usually, even when folk pretended they weren't interested or were too scared to say anything, a procession was sure to follow the witcher's path to the settlement leader. At that time, on the other hand, people kept minding their own business as if the monster slayer didn't exist.

Their walk ended at a wide square paved in cobblestone bricks. It was the little town's trading spot, and also the main branch from where the biggest streets sprouted from. At the square's northern end, the village counselor's house imposed itself, being the only residence boasting two floors and lonely occupying the area of half a block. It also had an upper balcony and a life-sized female statue a few yards across the front door. The gardens that surrounded its short outer walls were blooming with white mirtles, dandelions and sunflowers. _Cultivated through magic, without a doubt. It doesn't matter how experienced of a gardener you are, there is simply no conventional way of keeping so many flowers alive in this twisted weather._

Dodging the woman statue as if it could turn alive and catch him if he gave it a chance, Olme knocked gravely on the huge front door. A soft female voice answered from upstairs.

"Who is it?"

" 's me, Miss Luci. I brought a witcher for our troubles"

"Stay put, I'll be with you in a minute." Turning to his companions, the fisherman spoke in a hurried tone.

"Miss Luci is Joan's woman. She dun' like rude manners or t'be stared at, so watch it, ye both."

While they waited, the witcher could hear Luci inside the house. She walked from room to room, carrying tableware around. After a while, apparently satisfied with what she was doing, she met them at the door.

Indeed, she could have problems with staring. _I could stare at her all day and never be bothered to look elsewhere._ The woman displayed a mature, refined beauty that Dremor instantly associated with the elves', although she didn't have their distinctive pointed ears. She was also the figure depicted by the statue behind them.

"Pleased to meet you, I am Lucienne." She measured them both with her bright brown eyes. "I take it you already know, at least to some extent, the problems we are having in these parts."

"I told them all I know, Miss." Olme was evidently doing his best to control his accent, and it was a fierce battle. "We even seen the ghosts on the beach."

"Good, Olme. Thank you for everything." For a split second, the witcher thought he had sensed the glimpse of a deep, strong hatred kindle her eyes as she spoke to the aged man, but it was gone so fast he couldn't be sure if it was real or just his imagination. "I'll take the guests inside now."

"Right. Good bye, Miss, tell Joan I said hi." The couple also bid farewell to the fisherman, thanking him once more for saving them from the Cidarian city guard, and followed the hostess inside the mansion. She guided them through well-lit corridors, rooms and halls, all of which heavily adorned with beautifully carved furniture.

"I didn't think Olme would return so soon, so I wasn't expecting any visitors for a while. Please, excuse me if the house might seem a bit messy."

"You're joking, right?" Ves answered, whistling. "I haven't seen a house this tidy since the last time I was at home, and my mom was a real cleaning freak." Dremor could feel the lady straighten uncomfortably ahead, in disapproval. Before the alchemist could spout any more nonsense, he kicked her on the back of her leg, just above the tendon. She got the message. They stopped in one of the many living rooms, where Lucienne had previously arranged the tableware for an afternoon tea.

"Please make yourselves comfortable, I'll be right back." She headed to the neighboring room and started to heat the water, handling several pots and pans at the same time. _So there's the kitchen. Or_ _a_ _kitchen, for all I know._ While he tried to concentrate on what the hostess might be doing, Ves' flaming eyes caught his attention.

"That fucking hurt!" She whispered at him, baffled. "You trying to cripple me or something?"

"If that's what it takes to make you shut up, then yes. If it wasn't for your sweet voice back there, I could swear it was a troll speaking out loud. Didn't you hear Olme say she hates rude manners?"

"Yeah, I remember he also said she doesn't like being stared at, but that didn't stop you from gobbling her up with those cat eyes of yours."

"I-… I didn't stare that long…"

"She's gorgeous, right? What, now, you fancy her or someth-…" Sensing Lucienne's movements nearby, the witcher stopped her mockery with another kick under the table. Lightly, this time. The lady returned with a hot teapot and a few spoons. Without even asking if they wanted it or not, she filled three cups of tea and seasoned them with mint and cinnamon. While she was at it, Dremor took another good look.

Her black hair was evenly cut and pulled back in a short braid that reached just below her shoulders. Now that they were closer, he could see that her cheeks were slightly colored up, and her eyes were swollen. Also, she didn't wear any make-up. _She was crying a few minutes ago, just before we arrived._ Her dress was a bit too tight in the chest area, and her breasts wobbled around as she mixed the spic-

Ves' kick was so powerful that the whole table trembled, making the teacups and dishes clink vigorously. Holding a cry of pain and massaging his right leg, he looked down at his own cup and lightly nodded. _Got it. I'll stop it now._ Finishing with the tea, Lucienne pulled a chair for herself and took a seat across the table, facing the couple. Before she could bring any conversation topics, however, the witcher took the initiative.

"I must say, milady, this is all very strange."

"How so?"

"You see… I'm a witcher, a mutant, a freak, you name it. Common people scorn me as I pass, and nobles even avoid making eye contact, let alone letting me within their houses. Yet here I am, inside a beautiful mansion, sitting comfortably on a cushioned oak-carved chair and drinking seasoned tea made by your own hands. I've lived a long life already, but this is definitely a first for me."

"Well… When you put it like that, it must really seem very strange." Her weak smile could mean pretty much anything, and her body expressions revealed nothing at all. _She's definitely not easy to read. Trying so hard to be neutral… so polite… There's gotta be a catch to all this._ "But considering that you accepted to help us in this delicate matter, it's easy for me to overlook the differences between us and treat you gently, just as I would with anyone else." _There it is_. They really seemed desperate about this whole island situation, and Dremor wasn't about to let them swirl him up in this little game.

"And that's already one misjudgment of your part. I didn't accept this job yet. I'm here to discuss the details, fill in the blanks left by Olme, and most importantly, to bargain for my reward." Dremor then wore his most sick, defiant smile. "And just from what I've already seen and heard, this is no 'delicate matter', but an outright mess. We're dealing with powerful magic and many dangerous creatures. If you want to talk business, then let's talk business; there's no need for fake smiles and polite measures anymore." He emptied his cup in one swig. _The tea's good, though._ "You're not softening me up anymore, Miss Lucienne. Bring in Joan, I wish to speak to him. He's been hearing our conversation for a while, no doubts about that."

After a brief moment of hesitation, the hostess got up and smiled again, this time, revealing her own defeat. She slightly bowed to Ves, who watched the whole scene wide-eyed, and got very close to the witcher. When she was just beside his chair, she bent over and whispered to his ear:

"You seem to be the right one for this. Now don't fuck it up, okay?" Even with her voice as low as it was, he could feel it tremble with that same uncontrollable hatred that seemed to emanate from her a few minutes ago. She straightened up and made another curtsy, this time directed at both guests. When she spoke, her voice was once again soft and calm. "Joan will speak with you shortly. Please, do remain seated and comfortable, it won't be long." She left from the same door they used to enter the room, and Ves didn't waste any time.

"So much for keeping good manners in check, huh?" She hummed, smiling from ear to ear. _She's really enjoying herself, this little…_ "I think it would be best if you let me handle the interrogation next time. Using your own terms, a troll would've been more subtle while speaking to the lady. That grin of yours makes my insides turn ugly."

"I'll explain it all later, Ves, but we don't have time now. I can hear the contractor's footsteps, and I need you to leave all the talking to me."

"It goes without saying." She answered, with a playful wink. "Go get'em, tiger."

The man who entered the room was, without a doubt, of noble lineage. He was tall, thin, and fair-haired, with light facial features and deep green eyes. He wore a black tanned doublet, heavy leather trousers and long hunting boots. The man also had a sword strapped to his belt, but as soon as he noticed the witcher's gaze, he took it off and placed it over a wall hanger. He steadily approached their table and took a seat, right where Lucienne was a while ago.

"Well, I guess there's no need for introductions. You clearly saw through my gamble, and I'm entirely at fault. There's no way to say it nicely: we're desperate for help. So, how do you want this conversation to go, master witcher?" _Nicely played, now it appears like I'm in control, but you're still the one with all the information. We'll try to turn that around, one step at a time._

"Tell me everything, from the start. How it all began, and what's the situation right now. I'll wait 'till you're done, then I'll ask my questions. That good enough for you?"

"So be it, then." He got up and started to walk around the room, halting every few seconds to fix his clothes. After a short while, he stopped in front of the table, cleared his throat, and began his speech. "This island never had an official name, but folk used to call it _Nürand_." _Elven origins. This place is old._ "Yes, an elven name, which most likely goes back to our origins. But, as usual, as generations went by, our human traits became more and more prominent, to a point where even the island name changed to Nurland. Nowadays, I believe one of the last remnants of our elven lineage is present in my wife, whom you just met."

"A resemblance, yes." The witcher nodded. "But the old blood is already scarce in her. She doesn't have pointed ears, and I'm pretty sure she ages just the same as anybody else on the island."

"You're right. But this is not the main topic of our conversation." He searched through some of the chests and cabinets, grabbing a tied parchment at the bottom of a drawer. "This is the map of the island." Stretching the scroll over the table, Joan displayed a very well structured and detailed design of the island, circling two spots with a feather pen. "Nurland has-… had, two villages. The one we're at, Lindale, is located on the southern shore, here. The other one, on the north-western edge, is no more. It has been taken by monsters after the accident."

"Hey, slow down, you jumped a few steps just now. You were telling me about the ancient elven origins of the people from the island, and now we're already discussing the monsters that haunt the place? I need the whole story." The man sighed and shook his head. For a moment, the witcher thought he might have pushed a little too hard, but then Joan let out a tired laugh, and his face opened up in a smile.

"Well, if you really want the full explanation, then introductions are indeed necessary." He unbuttoned the doublet, removing the heavy garb and placing it over the same wall hanger where his sword rested, and then performed a complex reverence. "I am Joan of Nurland, counselor of Lindale and former mayor of Thome." Dremor thought the man wanted to make more of an impact, since he just stood there, knee to the ground and head tilted down. Then Ves nudged him on the shoulder. _Oh._

"I am Dremor of…" _Where did I come from? Zerrikania? But I can't be completely sure about that. From Kaer Morhen? Nah, too plain… But what then? I've already taken too long here!_ See, folks? Proper human relations can also be very hard. "Just Dremor is fine. I'm a witcher."

"And I…" Ves also made a curtsy, just as complicated as the one Joan performed before. "Am Ves Rayla of Vizima. I am a herbalist and an alchemist. We're at your care." Joan held her hand and lightly kissed its back. He then got up and extended his hand to Dremor.

 _Well, there's another first._

The witcher and the noble firmly shook hands, flesh onto leather; their eyes steady, staring at each other, yellow onto green. Unwavering green.


End file.
